


Glorfindel's Revenge

by NirCele



Series: Revenge [3]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Gen, Lots of Angst, elrond is mad, erestor is embarrassed, erestor is hurt, erestor's feelings are hurt, glorfindel doesn't know, glorfindel hurts erestor, glorfindel is being a jerk, glorfindel's revenge comes, poor erestor, the prank messes up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-06
Updated: 2015-02-06
Packaged: 2018-03-10 17:12:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3298043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NirCele/pseuds/NirCele
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three weeks have passed, and the time has come for Glorfindel to have his revenge. But Erestor is exhausted with all his work lately due to the upcoming feast of Starlight, the prank doesn't go quite like Glorfindel planned it, and Erestor gets hurt. Kinda one-shot, no slash, angsty, made to follow Erestor's Revenge but can be read separately.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Glorfindel's Revenge

**Author's Note:**

> R&R!!

It was almost completely dark in Imladris, the golden rays of Arien vanishing over the horizon as night fell. Three weeks had passed since Erestor had gained his vengeance on Glorfindel. The dark-haired adviser was getting even more wary as the days went by – Glorfindel hadn’t retaliated at all, not even done one of the young twins’ ridiculous pranks. His sword was still stuck in the scabbard – the Balrog-slayer couldn’t figure out how to get it out yet – but Glorfindel had done nothing to get revenge!  
The time passed alone made Erestor cautious. Glorfindel was not known as a patient elf, even though his skills as the Captain of the Guard of Imladris were unparalleled. Why hadn’t he done anything yet?  
Time for a change of thoughts. The feast of Starlight was coming up and he had a lot of work to make it go smooth. There were a few emissaries from Lothlórien, and one from the Grey Havens, so it had to run perfectly in order for Lord Elrond to maintain his reputation as a Lord that could manage many things as much. (Everyone in Imladris knew that it was Erestor who did all the hard stuff, though).  
The feast of Starlight was in two weeks! There was so much he needed to finish. . !  
These things Erestor mused as he sorted some papers into stacks. Sliding the most recent pile into an organized drawer in his desk, he returned to the reports that two of the patrol captains had given him earlier that week. Finally, he had time to get around to them.  
Glancing out the window briefly, Erestor was dismayed to see that it was almost nightfall. Unless he stayed up extremely late, he wouldn’t be able to go over these reports. With a sigh, the adviser resigned himself to finishing them. Pulling out the top paper, he placed it in front of him and went to work.  
Time passed. The moon and stars appeared in the sky, and night creatures came out, chirping, hooting, or howling.  
Four hours later, Erestor placed the last paper down, exhaling noisily. Finally! He was done! There had been a few mistakes in them, but they had been corrected, and now he had to get them to Lord Elrond first thing in the morning. He stacked them neatly and placed them on the edge of his desk so it would garner his attention as soon as he walked in tomorrow. As usual – ever since the twin sons of Lord Elrond and Celebrían had been born – he capped his quill and placed it in a drawer along with his covered ink bottle. There was no point in repeating the same mishap which had happened a week ago, when Elrohir, wanting to help, had gotten ink all over himself, the desk, and a number of important letters Erestor had been working on. One ink stain had stubbornly refused to get out, and still sat right where he wrote. It irked the adviser to have to tolerate it, but he would have to wait until the carpenters could sand the blot out.  
Rising from his chair, Erestor groaned and stretched, arching his back. He was used to sitting for hours on end, but it did cramp his muscles. As he started to the door, he stopped suddenly, knowing he was forgetting something. He thought about it for long moments, trying to remember what it was that he had to do. Did it involve that new arrangement with the Lórien guards? No . . . he’d already completed that. The two letters he had to finish? That Lord Elrond had told him to wait on – the Dorwinion wine requested from the Greenwood could be asked for right before the feast of Starlight.  
Then what was it? After another minute of trying to recall it, Erestor gave up. He had far too much on his mind at the moment, with the new patrol shifts he had to organize, some mysterious missing arrows from the armory, and if it was that important, he would have remembered it anyway.  
Continuing to the door, Erestor opened it and went down the hallway. His chambers were close enough to his study that no staying-up-late elves would see him traverse the distance. Feeling relieved that he was alone, Erestor started to unravel the braids in his ebony hair, just wanting to throw himself down on his bed as soon as he reached his rooms. Every night for the past few weeks he had stayed up late, working on the details for the upcoming feast of Starlight. There was so much minutiae that had to be arranged! The food that was to be served; the collection of drinks – elflings would be present, so there couldn’t be just wine; the type of music that would be played; even the seating arrangements!  
Sometimes Erestor wondered why in Arda he had agreed to become Lord Elrond’s Chief Counselor, but then he would remind himself that if he wasn’t Imladris would probably fall to ruin. After all, who was the one that organized everything, arranged parties to maintain the relationships between the other elven realms, kept correspondence running, had the patrols going smoothly, and even kept Lord Elrond on track?  
Lord Elrond was very wise, and he was the powerful Lord of Imladris, Erestor agreed on that. But the Elf lord could also not bear leaving something undone, so he had dozens of things he did at once, somehow managing to leave most of them for Erestor to finish. Well, that was just how things went.  
Erestor finally reached the door to his chambers, brushing his slender fingers through his hair to smooth it out. The dark locks were finally completely free, spilling over his shoulder and down his back in a completely straight line. To the befuddlement of many, his hair always stayed smooth, even after being in tight braids all day long. Weaving his hair never made it turn wavy, nor even the slightest curl came forth from his ebony tresses.  
When Erestor realized he was actually thinking about his hair, he snorted, pulling his door open and entering his sitting room. He could feel fatigue weighing down his eyes, but he couldn’t go to bed quite yet. First, he placed the laces he had taken out of his hair on the dresser in his bathing chamber, then took off his outer robes – black, of course, and folded them carefully before placing it in the basket the chambermaids used for dirty laundry. Then, with weariness marking his movements, he changed into a night robe – again black – and put the rest of his clothes in the hamper, his boots by the door.  
Just as he neared his bed, the forgotten thing sprang back to his memory. The needed medicines for the Herb Repository! How could he have let that slip from his mind? With a frustrated and tired growl, Erestor turned and marched toward the door. It would take him five minutes to write up the order, and then he could go back to bed.  
Slipping on some light shoes quickly, Erestor cracked the door and peeked out. No one was around – all smart elves would be in bed at this hour! Thankful that there wasn’t anyone to see him going down the hall in his bedclothes, Erestor slipped out of his chambers and hurried down the corridor, his hair falling over his back, long and silky. In his relief, he forgot to check the next hallway and turned without looking, smacking straight into a broad chest.  
He rebounded, but fortunately didn’t fall as an arm caught him and pulled him upright. Erestor looked up, annoyed and a little embarrassed, into the sparkling blue eyes of the Balrog-slayer. Pulling back, Erestor smoothed the front of his night shirt and raised his chin as if nothing was out of the ordinary. “Mae govannen, Glorfindel.”  
Glorfindel smiled, glancing inquisitively at the strange clothes his friend was wearing, but his eyes seemed nervous. “Mm . . . mae govannen. What brings you here this late?”  
“This is the path to my office,” said Erestor, giving the Elda a pointed look. He didn’t want to explain that he had actually forgotten to do something. “Kindly move.”  
With a grunt, Glorfindel moved out of the way, stepping to one side of the hallway, but giving a curious look at Erestor’s night clothes and slippers as he moved. Erestor felt the questioning eyes on him, but just straightened his slim shoulders and continued walking, heading for his office.  
Behind him, Glorfindel let out a sigh of relief and started away, but then his eyes widened. He was going to his study? Oh no, this wouldn’t do – ‘it’ was supposed to happen in the morning! With wide eyes, he spun and headed back toward Erestor.  
Erestor, meanwhile, was wearily plodding down the corridor, trying to stay alert but utterly failing. Elves were extraordinarily resilient, but weeks with little sleep had taken its toll on him. He just wanted to sleep for days without getting up, but that couldn’t happen, as he was needed.  
Spying his door ahead, Erestor suddenly wondered why Glorfindel had been down here. The Balrog-slayer rarely came to Erestor’s office unless he had to – Erestor usually had to go down to the guard’s barracks to get the patrol reports. He would never voluntarily come here . . . odd. Erestor was frankly too tired to be suspicious right now, though no one would have believed it, and he just wanted to finish writing that order for herbs and go back to bed. Hopefully Glorfindel would keep his mouth shut about what had happened – him wearing his bedclothes in the hall, that is. Of course, why would he tell anyone? That would be ridiculous, and there would be no point.  
Pulling the door open, Erestor moved forward, seeing the cold, empty fireplace and his desk right inside. Suddenly, he felt a sharp jolt at his ankles, and he fell forward without warning. Erestor’s chocolate brown eyes widened in surprise, and his arms flew up to block his fall automatically.  
He hit the hard stone floor hard; a piercing pain shot up his right hand abruptly and he literally heard a horrible ‘snap!’ His senses were overwhelmed for a moment with pain, and the world around him spun. A surprised groan escaped his lips for a moment, but he clamped his lips shut to try and contain it.  
Erestor lay still for a few moments, trying to figure out what had just happened. He had tripped over something? Trying to move, he immediately regretted it as his right arm protested fiercely. Shuddering, the adviser tried to contain the pain without screaming and alerting everyone within hearing distance. A burning sensation was creeping from his wrist, where it hurt the most, up his arm, and down into his fingers.  
Then, to his horror, he heard the worst thing that he could have happened. Footsteps. Definitely Glorfindel’s.  
“Erestor?” The Elda’s voice was somewhat nervous. “Hey, I, uh . . . just remembered something. Don’t go into your study yet, okay?”  
Too late for that, though Erestor, annoyed in spite of the throbbing in his wrist. There was a problem, though. He wasn’t going to just lie here and let the Balrog-slayer find him. His pride wouldn’t allow it! Erestor tried frantically to figure out a way to get up as Glorfindel’s footsteps drew every closer.  
Out in the corridor, around the corner, Glorfindel hurried toward Erestor’s study. He did not mean for Erestor to fall for his prank so soon! He knew the adviser was always tired after his long day working –good grief, it was past midnight! How long had he stayed up tonight? – and he had seen the tiredness in Erestor’s eyes, though he had been trying to conceal it. And when Erestor was exhausted, he tended to be a bit clumsy . . . what if something happened that wasn’t meant to?  
Glorfindel had set up the prank; it was a thin mithril cord stretched across the office door, meant to make Erestor stumble when he was going into work in the morning. It wasn’t meant for midnight! So Glorfindel went faster, and then rounded the corner. His heart sank when he saw that Erestor was nowhere in sight – he must have gone into his study! This time he barely restrained himself from breaking into a run, and neared the open door to Erestor’s office. The view inside was now visible, and he couldn’t see anything . . . ah! There was Erestor, seated at his desk and looking down at a paper, his dark hair concealing most of his face. His right arm was invisible, apparently resting on his lap as he held a quill in his left hand.  
“Erestor!” exclaimed Glorfindel, relieved immensely. The adviser didn’t look up, but his tone eked annoyance.  
“What, Glorfindel?”  
Glorfindel glanced down and saw a tiny glimmer as the light from the torches in the corridor caught on the mithril wire. With a barely noticeable movement of his foot, he stepped on the thread, yanking it out of the wood it was embedded in. Glancing up, he noticed that Erestor still hadn’t looked up. “Oh, I . . . nothing. I was just – never mind. I forgot.” Letting out an almost inaudible sigh of relief, Glorfindel bent down swiftly and snatched the mithril thread, then backed away and left. This was a ridiculous prank, anyway.  
Erestor kept his eyes firmly fixed on the blank paper in front of him, trying to hide his trembling. As soon as Glorfindel had left, he groaned and wrapped the fingers of his left hand around his right wrist, trying to hold it steady. It was certainly broken – he had had to shift it and heard a terrible clicking noise of the bones rubbing together. Trying to control himself, he took in deep breaths. What he had to do now was obvious – go to the Healing Rooms, convince someone to help him, swear them to silence, them . . . wait. This was his right hand! He couldn’t write with his left hand! Oh, Valar help him, nothing was going to get done if his hand was broken! That news was almost worse than the pain!  
Calm . . . down, Erestor ordered himself. First order of business – don’t panic. Second, get the wrist fixed. Then . . . the third could be figured out when he came to it. Although he didn’t like leaving without completely organizing his plan of action, his wrist was starting to swell, and it was paining him immensely. So instigating the plan, he stood carefully, holding back a whimper at the throbbing. Pulling in his arm close to his stomach to keep it immobile, he cautiously took a step toward the door. A jolt of pain ran up his arm, but it was bearable, so he continued to the open door.  
Stepping out into the hallway, Erestor glanced up and down for anyone coming toward him. Not an elf was in sight, but he could faintly hear Glorfindel’s footsteps moving further away. Good, the Balrog-slayer wouldn’t find out that he had tripped over nothing and broken his wrist. He moved out into the hallway and went as quickly as he could toward the Healing Rooms. They were almost halfway across Imladris, and it took him an hour to navigate the distance without being seen.  
By the time he got there, Erestor’s wrist was swollen to twice its original size and the pain made his vision swim every step he took. The ache had driven almost all of his weariness away, but his eyes still felt heavy from lack of sleep. He stumbled once, accidentally, and the resulting shrieking protest from his arm almost made him pass out. Fortunately, he regained his equilibrium and continued on.  
Erestor reached the closest Healing Room and he pushed the door open, faltering right outside but then pressing inside. No one was there, and he was dismayed for a moment, then realized it would be for the better. No one needed to know that he – the graceful Chief Counselor of Lord Elrond – had tripped over his own feet. Weren’t elves supposed to be graceful and ethereal?  
“It must be the lack of rest,” muttered Erestor in excuse, glancing around the room he had entered. Twin cots sat near the shuttered window, along with accompanying dressers, and next to the door he had just come through was a table with stacks of bandages and some healing herbs. That’s what he needed!  
Erestor hurried – as best as he could – to the table and warily let go of his wrist but held it against his chest so it wouldn’t shift and cause him more pain. He picked up a folded white bandage awkwardly with his left hand and then paused. How was he supposed to do this? He had no idea how to do anything related with healing – he only had the vaguest idea of how to wrap a bandage.  
Was he just supposed to . . . wrap the thing around his wrist? Considering that, he figured that it wouldn’t be stable enough. Then to his relief, he caught sight of a neat pile of perfectly aligned sticks. Maybe that was how he did it! Carefully, Erestor placed his right hand on the table and bit back another groan when he felt a bone shift again. Trying not to jolt it anymore than was needed, he took two of the sticks, lined them up with his arm, and wrapped the bandage tightly around it. It was an interesting challenge with only one hand – and his less-dominant one at that – but he managed, trying not to howl in pain at the grinding of the broken ends together. He knew he was doing it wrong, but at least it stabilized it for the time being. Maybe . . . maybe, tomorrow, he could ask Lord Elrond to actually fix it correctly. For now, it was fine.  
When he had tucked the end of the bandage into the edge, Erestor released a shuddering sigh. As least it wouldn’t shift now, though the bandage did nothing to help with the pain that made his other hand tremble. Now what was he to do? Back to his chambers was an obvious idea, though he knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep since his mind would be fogged with anguish.  
Wait . . . he remembered the lists he had made a few weeks ago of the herbs that needed catalogued. He wouldn’t do that, of course – he had too much to do – but he had written an inventory of the things that needed done and had handed it off to one of the healers to do. Thinking hard, he could recall one of the medicinal herbs near the top of the list that could apparently be used as a sleeping drug or pain reducer, depending on the amount that was taken.  
He would make a tea with that, then, or a salve (even though Erestor had no idea how a salve was created), go to bed, then get up in the morning and discuss the . . . problem with Lord Elrond. There, he had a plan once more. Everything would turn out fine after all.  
Twenty minutes later, Erestor had to fight masterfully to keep from screaming at the top of his lungs. He had found the foul-smelling herb for pain reliever, somehow managed to sneak into the empty kitchens and boil some water, then had even figured out how to steep the cursed herbs!  
But now – now he was trying to figure out how he was supposed to drink the stuff! His left hand refused to pick the kettle up, it was shaking so hard, and his vision was blurring in front of him. Just a moment ago, he had tried to reach for the pot that held the steaming liquid, and bumped his right arm into it, making his head spin wildly and his arm protest furiously. Erestor had released a string of colorful oaths that would have curdled milk and completely shocked anyone who knew him – they thought he was a quiet, sometimes sharp-tongued, sarcastic adviser, but he had never uttered a curse in front of anyone. Right now he didn’t care, though. He wanted that drink, and now his wrist was hurting even more!  
It was probably a good thing that no one came upon Erestor at that moment, though it seemed like he needed help. He was a proud soul, though he wouldn’t admit it, and if anyone had offered to help him right now – well, the consequences weren’t worth thinking about.  
With a few more muttered curses, Erestor managed to pour the tea into a mug, slopping it over the sides a few times. He dropped the kettle back in the smoldering firepit and wrapped the fingers of his left hand around the steaming drink. Raising it to his lips carefully, he took a sip and immediately he made the most disgusted face he could muster. It was bitter!  
Sighing heavily, Erestor resigned himself to drinking the whole cup of disgusting tea. Wishing he could pinch his nose, he lifted the mug and gulped down the whole thing. He finished, making a gagging sound, and then waited for the pain in his wrist to subside.  
It took about two minutes before he could feel his wrist slowly becoming numb. By then, his eyes had almost shut in his exhaustion, though he was still standing beside the empty kettle and discarded cup. He released a yawn, but forced himself to straighten up. He needed to start back to his rooms now, before the cooks came in and started cooking the enormous loaves of bread needed for breakfast. They always began early in the morning, at almost three o’clock. He knew it was almost that time, seeing the faintly lightening horizon out of a window, and knew he needed to get to his chambers so he could at least get a few hours of sleep before he had to inform . . . Elrond . . .  
When his thoughts started drifting before Erestor had even taken a step, he shook his head to clear his mind and forced his legs to move, carrying himself out of the kitchen, into the halls, and out of the building. After navigating the many paths and bridges that led to the chambers, he stumbled into the corridor that led to his room. Once again, there was no one to see him, so he made it to his bedchambers successfully. Opening the door was a challenge, but he coped, and finally he was at the edge of his bed. Usually, after a hard day’s work, he would jump with relief on the bed, doing a face-plant – which gave him a moment’s respite from having to be the stern adviser everyone knew and disliked – but obviously he couldn’t do that now.  
Great, something else he couldn’t do anymore now that he had tripped over nothing! That was a sore point. Elves were never supposed to fall!  
Resigning himself to having to carefully sit on the bed, Erestor lowered himself to the edge of the sheets and scooted inwards ever so slowly. His right arm was held tightly to his stomach; his muscles protested at the treatment, still throbbing slightly even though it was mostly numb from the tea. He managed to make it to the middle of the bed and gradually bent over onto his left side, letting his right hand down to the mattress ever-so-slowly. That done, he let out a sigh of relief as his eyes clouded with pain and fatigue, and Erestor let himself drop off to sleep.  
"""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""  
Erestor woke up the next morning with a foul taste in his mouth. For a long moment he couldn’t remember what had happened, but then the memories came back, along with a throbbing ache in his right wrist. By the grace of the Valar, what was he supposed to do?  
Oh, right. Raich. He had to go tell Lord Elrond so the idiotic broken wrist could be mended in private, then he could get back to his work. The logical side of his mind reasoned that he wouldn’t be able to write with his right hand for a few days, if not weeks, but he pushed that thought out of his mind so he wouldn’t become discouraged.  
First order of business, get dressed. Just thinking about that made Erestor want to curl up and go back to sleep. Why? Why did this have to happen to him? Then, with mounting horror, the adviser realized something. Glorfindel had yet to gain revenge for his sword getting stuck in his scabbard – all Erestor’s doing, of course. That meant he was probably going to do something today, of all days. No, no . . . he couldn’t think about it, or he would despair and hide under his bed. That was never a good pastime for Lord Elrond’s Chief Counselor.  
Get. Up. Erestor had to remind himself before his mind wandered off, trying to ignore his wrist which was shrieking at him to pay attention. Grateful that he hadn’t shifted his weight, thus causing him more pain, during the night, the adviser wiggled to the edge of the bed and carefully swung his feet over the edge, forcing back a tired yawn.  
He dared a glance at the partially-opened windows and saw that Arien was just coming over the horizon. Good, that meant he wouldn’t be late, which was always a bad thing. Rising to his feet unsteadily, Erestor moved across the room, wincing whenever he stumbled and his wrist was jolted. He somehow managed to get his wardrobe open and frowned inside.  
Hm, let’s see, what to wear today? Black . . . black . . . or black? I think I’ll pick . . . black today, just for a change. Erestor couldn’t help the sarcastic thoughts that came to his mind when he saw the rows of inky black robes that he always wore. He actually enjoyed wearing them, but at the moment he was going to be pained putting them on, since they were so heavy. Resigning himself to the fact that he was going to have to get them on, Erestor fumbled in a drawer for a tunic and leggings. He finally got them out and tucked them under his left arm awkwardly, moving back to his bed for aid.  
With some tearing of his night robe, a few painful bumps to his right wrist, and more than a few furiously muttered curses, Erestor was somehow able to get his clothes for that day on. He almost groaned when he caught sight of his lace-up boots that were waiting for him by the door to his sitting room. How was he supposed to do this?  
One step at a time, thought Erestor, deciding to go by Glorfindel’s principle – do things as they come upon you – or so the Elda claimed that was what he did.  
The adviser slid into the chair beside his boots and stared down at them mournfully. He took a deep breath and braced himself for pain, then started.  
By the time he was done, the sun was almost over the horizon, yellow rays peeking up to paint the sky in delightful colors. Erestor just shot the view an annoyed look and went to the door, his wounded wrist concealed inside the long sleeves of his floor-length black robes. He closed his eyes to prepare himself, then gingerly turned the doorknob with his left hand and walked out.  
"""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""  
“Círdan’s beard!” swore Elrond when he caught sight of Erestor’s inflamed wrist. He and the adviser were in his and Celebrían’s bedchambers. When Erestor had asked for assistance, Elrond assumed it had to be something to do with paperwork or reports – not this! He had wondered about the barely concealed embarrassed look on Erestor’s face, though.  
“How did this happen?” Elrond asked, wincing in sympathy and carefully pulling away the sticks that had supported his right wrist. There were indents in the swollen skin from where it had pressed into the flesh, and the bandages were crinkled from use overnight.  
Erestor mumbled something under his breath, but didn’t say anything louder. Elrond decided not to press him and gently prodded the break to find out how severe it was. Erestor’s eyes widened and he hissed in a breath; Elrond released the arm with an apologetic look.  
“Just . . . wait here,” ordered Elrond, pointing to the small desk in his room. He hurried over to his bed and pulled a silver-engraved box from the shelf above it, laying it down on the covers and opening it. Celebrían and his young sons had already gone to the morning meal, but Erestor had stopped him in the hallway, and in a quiet voice, asked for ‘a moment of your time.’ Elrond had just brought him the twenty yards to the privacy of his chambers, instead of walking through crowds of elves rising from their beds.  
After Elrond found what he needed – a thick cream in a tightly-screwed bottle, a thinner paste that almost looked like watery flour, more pristine bandages, these ones thin and long, some folded leaves, and a few small sticks, he returned to Erestor’s side. His Chief Counselor’s face was pale, evident of the suffering he was going through. Maybe he should be more . . . direct.  
“When did this happen?” Elrond emphasized, setting down the supplies on his cluttered desk and looking Erestor right in the eye.  
Erestor lowered his dark brown eyes in discomfiture, muttering softly, “Last night.” Technically it had been in the morning, but Elrond didn’t need to know that.  
“Last night!” exclaimed Elrond. “You slept with it like that?”  
A mumbled affirmative.  
“You could have woken me, I would have fixed it!”  
Erestor had considered that, but, “I didn’t want to disturb you.”  
Elrond sighed in exasperation. “Well, if this ever happens again – hopefully it doesn’t – then come to me straightaway and get my help!”  
“Yes, my Lord,” Erestor said obediently, which showed how much pain he was in. Normally he would have the perfect witty retort, but now he seemed almost subdued. Elrond sighed and finished arranging the supplies to bandage the adviser’s arm. It was somewhat amusing to see that he would keep the healing materials organized, but his office was hopeless.  
With gentle fingers, Elrond spread some thick paste over the arm. Erestor almost groaned at the cooling sensation that came from the creamy stuff, partially dulling the pain in his wrist. Elrond, forcing himself into clinical mode, carefully wrapped a soft cloth around the paste. His eyes going emotionless as they had to do when he worked on someone, Elrond supported the broken bones with the small sturdy sticks he had gotten.  
“Rest your arm here,” Elrond ordered Erestor, pointing at the small desk. The adviser gingerly complied, not wanting to jolt his wrist again. After he had done that, Elrond opened the container of watery paste in it, dipped one of the thin bandages in it, then wrapped it around Erestor’s wrist.  
Erestor had tensed, expecting more pain, but Elrond was careful as he swathed Erestor’s wrist in more of the wet strips of cloth. As he draped the dripping bandages around his adviser’s wrist, Elrond said quietly, “How did this happen? It wasn’t the fault of your ridiculous pranks with Glorfindel, was it?” He didn’t want to discourage the tricks, for it made Erestor’s eyes somewhat lighter to engage in such silly banter, but he had not known the Chief Counselor to have gotten hurt . . . even once while he was in Imladris, reflected Elrond.  
Erestor shook his head reluctantly, watching Elrond’s repeated movements with studious attention. “No, I . . . tripped.”  
Elrond raised the Eyebrow in surprise. “Tripped over what?”  
“Nothing,” muttered the adviser somewhat petulantly.  
“Oh, come now, you can’t have tripped over nothing.”  
Erestor huffed in annoyance. “Well, I did. I checked and nothing was there.”  
Elrond hid his smile at the snapped words. It seemed Erestor’s pride hadn’t been irretrievably damaged, since he still had the courage to snipe at the Lord of Imladris. He finished wrapping the wet bandages and wiped his fingers on one of the leftover cloths, then started putting up the rest of the medical supplies. “Wait there,” he instructed, screwing a lid back on.  
Erestor gazed down at his wrist mournfully. “How long will it take to heal?”  
“A few weeks,” said Elrond, but when Erestor stared at him in disbelief, he added, “It wasn’t good for the bones for you to sleep when it wasn’t wrapped properly.”  
Grumbling under his breath, Erestor said more loudly, “How am I supposed to do my work when I can’t write with this hand?”  
Elrond paused from putting up the bandages and considered that for a long minute. He then smiled as an idea came to him. “Just dictate to a scribe. I’ve always told you that you need an assistant, now is just a good time as any to get one. Anything that you can’t do, just drop it on my desk and I’ll get to it as soon as possible.”  
“But . . !” Erestor looked horrified by the very prospect. “I can’t –”  
“Yes, you can,” Elrond said firmly, turning and fixing his Chief Counselor with a stern glare. Erestor’s chocolate brown eyes met Elrond’s grey ones for a long tense moment before the adviser lowered his eyes.  
“Yes, my Lord,” he said stiffly.  
Elrond rolled his eyes, turning back to place the box of healing materials back up on the shelf. Where in Arda did Erestor get that utterly stubborn streak from, and why did he not want an assistant so badly? He went back to Erestor’s side and forced the adviser to look at him, pulling up his chin with steady fingers.  
“Do not take me for a fool,” Elrond started, and raised his other hand to ward off the startled protest from Erestor. “It is for your own good. Don’t think I haven’t noticed the late nights you stay up; the weariness in your eyes. You will accept help, and you will not go back to writing with that hand for at least four weeks. Is that understood?”  
Erestor, feeling like a scolded elfling, nodded meekly.  
“And I order you to sleep in tomorrow,” Elrond added with a twinkle in his eyes, which Erestor missed.  
“Yes, my Lord,” he said again, but this time with a more agreeable tone to it. Elrond nodded in approval, and then glanced down at the offending limb which had caused all this trouble. He reached down and knocked against the bandages, and Erestor was surprised to hear a low ‘thunk’ come from the stiffened cloths, and no pain resounded through his wrist at the contact.  
“Ah, it’s dried already,” said Elrond in satisfaction. He nodded his consent when Erestor let his long sleeves fall back to their original drooping position. “That’s good, then. Are there any more questions?”  
Erestor shook his head almost immediately. “I don’t think so, my Lord.”  
“Enough with the ‘Lord’ business,” Elrond ordered, but Erestor took him seriously – as usual – and nodded gravely in concurrence. “Very well.” They both knew that within hours, Erestor would go back to calling him ‘my Lord,’ so Elrond figured it a hopeless cause, but he still enjoyed seeing the adviser flustered as he tried to figure out a way to call him by his title without saying ‘Lord.’  
“Come eat breakfast with us,” Elrond decided, moving toward the door of his chambers. His lovely wife was probably already waiting for him at the dining halls with Elladan and Elrohir.  
Erestor’s eyes widened in a slight panic. “I . . . I have those letters to write – oh.” He scowled at his hand, innocently wrapped in stiff white bandages.  
“Nonsense,” Elrond said decisively. “I won’t take no for an answer.” He opened the door and gestured out into the hallway. “Come now.”  
With an expression that spoke of slight annoyance but a long-standing patience, Erestor did as he said, following him into the hall. A few elves passing by gave him curious looks, and he flushed slightly when he realized why. It wasn’t because of his bandaged wrist – that was hidden well by his long sleeves – but because his hair was somewhat unkempt at was unbraided, which was unlike him. He usually wove intricate braids into his hair, mostly so the long strands wouldn’t get in the way of his work, but he couldn’t do it this morning with his hand like this, so he hadn’t even tried.  
Erestor was still trying to figure out ways he could keep his hair managed when he and Lord Elrond entered the dining halls. Many gave the adviser a surprised look; he usually missed breakfast because of the work he started so early, but this time he was following Elrond in, and with quite untypical partially mussed hair. Erestor just seated himself a couple chairs away from Lord Elrond and sat quietly, looking down at his right wrist that he propped in his lap.  
A table or two away, Glorfindel was having a boisterous conversation with three of the warriors in his main patrol. They were all good friends, and all loved joking and usually plenty of wine. Right now they were all in a rowdy mood, trying to talk over each other and laughing uproariously whenever a joke was uttered. Glorfindel was having the best time with it, and when his eyes caught the silent form of the adviser, he immediately remembered the prank he had never gotten him back for. Then he noticed the unbraided hair and the slightly rumpled robes, and he grinned widely, turning back to his trio of friends. He had just remembered the perfect blackmail materiel – well, he wasn’t planning on using it for blackmail, just an interesting story.  
“You will never guess what I saw last night, about midnight,” Glorfindel started, catching an immediate rapt audience. His friends dropped their food or drinks they were devouring and gave him their attention.  
Erestor frowned in concentration, picking up his breakfast spoon with his left hand and awkwardly stabbing the meal of oats in his bowl. He wasn’t really that hungry, but it would be an insult to the cook if he didn’t finish his food. Somehow he dealt with being able to pick up a mouthful of the gooey stuff and force it inside his mouth. A conversation accompanied a few tables over along with uproarious laughter caught his attention for the moment, then he lost interest and went back to his food. After all, it was just Glorfindel.  
Those dismissive thoughts changed when he heard his name mentioned. He turned his full attention to that table, wondering just what they were talking about. Were they talking about him? Ah-ha, yes, his suspicions were confirmed when he heard Glorfindel say his name.  
“– but I was just walking along, minding my own business, when Erestor just walked around the corner and practically smashed into me,” Glorfindel was saying with a wide grin on his face. “Fortunately, I caught him, and then . . .” He paused for dramatic effect, waggling his eyebrows at his listeners of three. “Then,” he continued, “I noticed what he was wearing.”  
All three of the warriors instantly glanced over at the resident Chief Counselor, who immediately dug into his oatmeal that was topped with delicious berries when he saw that they had caught him staring. Glorfindel sniggered and kept talking. “He was in his nightclothes! The aloof and perfect adviser was walking around at midnight dressed in nothing but a robe and slippers.”  
Glorfindel’s warriors howled with laughter as they tried to imagine the staid adviser walking through the Halls of Imladris in a night robe. It was just too much for them.  
A few tables away, Erestor’s face flushed in embarrassment and he ducked his head to let strands of his hair fall in front of his features. He had lost his appetite – admittedly, he couldn’t lose something he never had in the first place – and just pushed his food around in his bowl. Elrond was busy discussing a trip to Lórien with Celebrían and hadn’t noticed anything out of the ordinary, and the twin elflings were arguing over a piece of sweet bread that had originally been on their father’s face.  
Glorfindel, however, had caught the flustered look on Erestor’s face and greatly enjoyed it. Ah, this could be his ‘prank’! Wounding the adviser’s pride hadn’t occurred to him; he just thought it would be a good payback. “Erestor!” he called, and was pleased when dark eyes glanced over at him.  
“Is today just the day to be lazy and not do your hair, or did you break your hand or something?” Unknowingly, Glorfindel hit on the thing Erestor was just feeling self-conscious about.  
Erestor flinched and felt his eyes fill with tears. He didn’t know how Glorfindel had figured out that he had been so clumsy, but he knew the Balrog-slayer would mock him for it. With a screech of wooden chair legs against stone, Erestor stood and pushed his bowl away. “Not hungry,” he mumbled in excuse when Elrond glanced over at him, then turned and hurried away. He hated that he had to pass Glorfindel’s table when he headed for the doors to get out of the dining hall, but when he went by, Glorfindel reached out and snagged his right hand, which was still mostly hidden by his robes.  
Erestor winced when his wrist was jolted, and turned his head away, expecting another joke. He wasn’t surprised when one came.  
“Come on now,” Glorfindel teased, thinking that the adviser was just annoyed at him. “You need to eat, or you’ll wither away into a bag of bones and skin. You’re tiny enough as it is.” The other warriors snickered at his choice of words.  
Barely breathing, Erestor pulled his hand away, biting back a whimper when pain laced up his arm. He continued on, his face still hidden by his long ebony hair. The taunts of his clumsiness – or he took it as that, his petite body compared to other elves, and even his forgetfulness last night were too much for him, and he had to leave before he showed any more . . . weakness.  
“Erestor?” Glorfindel called after him, confused. He had anticipated a barb in return, and was taken aback that one didn’t come from the proud Chief Counselor. At the Lord of Imladris’ table, Elrond watched in perplexity as his adviser went through the doors of the dining hall. He hadn’t been paying attention, so had no idea why Erestor had left, seemingly in a huff, but he had heard a tremor in Erestor’s voice when he claimed that he wasn’t hungry. Had something happened when he hadn’t been taking notice?  
With one look at Glorfindel’s bewildered face, he had a good idea of what had just happened.

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know what you think! X)


End file.
